Letters of Intent
by Pharoah'sCat
Summary: This story started out as an exploration of the maternal and sometimes not so maternal relationship between Violet Crawley and her son. It then wandered into many unexpected places and times. It is a bit of an epic. Several longish chapters to follow. I do not own Downton Abbey or these characters but I certainly admire Julian Fellowes who does and did.
1. Chapter 1

LETTERS of INTENT/Tales from Downton Abbey

Chapter 1. The Treasure Hunt. 1926.

The two motors trundled steadily toward the Dowager's house. Robert and Cora sat in the back seat of the lead car, with Bates up front next to the chauffeur. Behind them, in a sort of jerry rigged lorry, rode Thomas, Alfred, and, at the wheel, proud as it was possible to be of his new driving skills, James. It was a sunny, late autumn afternoon and the little caravan was making its way to the Dowager's house to clear out a last room ... a room that that the Dowager's aged butler Wells described rather mysteriously as the 'East attic double storage room.'

The Dowager, Violet Estelle Makepeace Crawley, had died on the first day of autumn. She had had her normal breakfast, written a few letters, strolled in the garden, had lunch with the Vicar, indulged in a brief nap, harassed her gardener, read a novel of which she strongly disapproved, dined promptly at 8:30, retired at 10 and was found by her maid, dead in her bed at 9 the next morning. A stroke,most likely, said Dr. Clarkson.

Opinion varied as to whether the relative peacefulness of her passing was more in or out of her formidable character. (Many years ago, when her daughter-in-law had found out that the Dowager's maiden name was 'Makepeace.' she had voiced the "irony" of the name to her husband, who only smiled ruefully in reply.)

Downton rallied quickly. The Dowager had laid out her wishes for her own funeral with military precision and they had been followed to the letter. In her will she had dispensed and dispersed all of her worldly goods including nearly all of the bulky furniture in the Dowager House. Only the oddly named 'East attic double storage room,' remained to be dealt with.

As the front car turned through the gates, toward the house, Cora slipped her arm through Robert's. "Whatever shall we do with it?"

"The house? Well, I have been thinking about that." Robert paused until Cora nudged him. "And?" Robert turned to her with a smile. "I was wondering if perhaps we might be able to turn the house into a school."

Cora's beamed. "Robert! What a wonderful idea! Do you think we could? There is such a need. So many children can't afford to go on to Ripon and there just isn't the farm work for them anymore."

"Perhaps. If we can afford it."

"But you and Mary and Tom have said how well the estate has been doing."

"Yes...but that is today and I am determined not to be such a fool about money twice. And," he continued before Cora could protest, "there is the matter of the damned 'death duties..."

"So, don't die!" Instructed Cora firmly.

"Easy for you to say," Robert said with a smile, "and I'll certainly do my best, but before we commit to the school or much else, I need to insure that Sybie and Marigold are well provided for and that young George will have enough to manage the estate as it should be. Apparently Mathew gave Mama some rather shrewd advice, so at least some of her money is shielded from worst of the taxes. Still, If we can do it at all, it will ultimately have to be self sustaining."

Cora pondered this possible bump in their financial road. She had learned, through hard experience, to pay more attention to matters monetary than she ever had as a young woman or, indeed, through much of her marriage to Robert.

"Well, we shall see. But IF we can manage, we must. A school would be such a wonderful legacy for you...and," she added hastily, "of course, your mother."

Robert smiled. "The Dowager Duchess School" perhaps?"

"Or", Cora offered, "The Dowager Duchess of Grantham School."

"Rather a mouthful that. Think of the monogramming," Robert added with a smile. "What say you Bates?"

Bates half turned in his seat, unsurprised that his master assumed he had been listening. "Perhaps, M'Lord, just, The Grantham School?"

"Well done Bates! The very thing." Robert enthused.

"Yes," Cora agreed, "It IS good. The Grantham School. But Robert, you MUSN'T let dreadful Mr. Travis run it!"

Robert laughed in agreement. "No, I quite agree. It needs someone younger and less…less…rigid."

"Less of a horse's ass!" Cora exclaimed as Bates suppressed a laugh and the chauffeur's ears turned pink.

In the second car...which really was just one of the farm carts, normally used for hauling hay from the outer farms...tacked onto a lorry bed, there was less chatter but more excitement. For the three footmen, this drive to the Dowager's house, even to act as 'removal men', was a rare opportunity to venture outside their normal routine. The Earl hadn't known what awaited him in the East Attic Double Storage Room, so he had simply drafted his 3 senior footmen into duty. A duty they rather considered an adventure.

The Rolls glided smoothly to a stop in front of the main entrance of the Dowager House, still bearing a black ribboned wreath. The lorry lurched and skittered to a somewhat less graceful arrival behind the Rolls.

Wells, who had been called out of retirement to replace the departed Spratt, was now deep into his 80s but was at the door to greet them before the cars had even fully stopped.

Robert and Cora swept into the house with the Bates and the footmen straggling a in a little awkwardly behind them.

"M'Lord," Bates inquired, "do you want James to leave the lorry out front, or take it round the back?"

"He might as well leave where it is...even if we have to bring things down and load them in, there is no one here to see." Robert shook his head. "No wait...Mama would have fit if she saw the lorry out front. Have James park it round back and then he can join us inside. Oh, and Wells. I think you might remove the mourning wreath from the door. Mama always did hate dragging things out. Now, perhaps you will be so kind to lead us to this mysterious 'East attic room.'"

"Yes, of course, M'Lord." Wells began a slow but steady ascent up the main staircase, with Robert, Cora and the servants strung out like ducklings behind him. "I haven't been up there myself for...oh, it must be 25 years and more...the Dowager asked me to take a screen up..one of those Oriental screens with painted birds and all. I think it was a gift from Mrs. Livermore."

"Oh dear." responded Robert.

"Quite" said Wells.

"Who is Mrs. Livermore?" Cora whispered to Robert.

"Ah..she was a venerable lady who husband was among the first of the non landed, monied class in these parts. Her husband was a very wealthy merchant. China trade. And Mrs. Livermore was, if it is possible to imagine, even more imperious than Mama. She was several years older than Mama and one of the few people I ever saw who could actually boss her around. She used to shower gifts on Mama that, almost without exception, she utterly loathed."

"Because of the gift or the giver?" asked Cora.

"A bit of both, I think," replied Robert.

At the top of the stairs the group turned down a long corridor, past the guest bedrooms. It occurred to Robert that he hadn't been in the second floor of this house since the days of his own somewhat ferocious grandmother Crawly. He and Rosamund would sneak up to explore and dash around in and out of the rooms slamming doors behind them until they were called to heel by their parents. At the end of the corridor they climbed a small staircase and followed a shorter hallway to a double door.

"I did send the day helper in to dust M'Lord," Wells informed Robert. "I hope that was alright? I thought it would be a fright of decades of dust if no one went in to see to it. I instructed her MOST strongly NOT to disturb anything." he said with vigor. "Other than the dust of course." he added hastily.

"Yes, of course, quite right" Robert assured him. "You know," he said to no one in particular while peering out a window near the large door, "the first thing I notice about the 'East Attic Double Storage Room' is that it is very much in the western part of the house."

Wells looked around vaguely. "I hadn't ever noticed, M'Lord." He swung open the large door and gestured Cora and Robert into the room. Robert stepped in feeling foolishly nervous. Cora took his hand, feeling the same way, and followed him.

The room was dimly, but adequately lit by a series of small, high windows that cast a diffuse light. After his eyes became accustomed to the change in light, Robert let his gaze swing around. And discovered simply a large room containing perhaps a dozen cloth draped objects, some large and some small, most in one corner of the room. The only other thing of note, was a wall...only two feet high or so... that divided the room in two, with a small passage way that allowed access to both sides of the room.

"Well," Robert said...feeling a little foolish at his trepidation, "This shouldn't take long." He moved further into the room, with Cora and then the servants stepping in behind him. "Really, there doesn't seem to be very much at all."

Cora let out a sigh. "I must say, I am a little disappointed."

Robert laughed, "What were you expecting...a treasure chest of doubloons?"

Cora slapped his arm gently. "No, just something more…" she paused and looked around at the pile of cloth draped lumps, "of course," she continued, "we really don't know what is under all the drapery. It could be anything; old trunks filled with love letters, pirate booty...shrunken heads!"

"Shrunken heads!?" blurted James, looking alarmed.

Robert raised an eyebrow at Cora and said, "Really. The only shrunken heads my mother ever collected were those of her nearest and dearest." Everyone laughed at that ...even Wells…and they all went further into the room. "Now," continued Robert briskly, "let's see what IS under some of this."

He randomly chose one of the medium -sized 'lumps' and tugged the cloth away. Underneath was a 3 foot vase...perhaps an umbrella stand.. of Oriental design. Robert knew or cared little for art. His taste, such as it was, ran to traditional country scenes, but even he could see that this was something special. The glaze was of an extraordinary green; something between the color of the sea on a mild day and an unripe apple. Even in the dim light of the attic, it positively glowed. Etched and layered from the base upwards was a marvelous array of dragons, waves, fish, sea plants, and flotillas of sea birds. There was no color change...this vivid world was all created through the skill of the artist's hand.

"Oh, its beautiful! Beyond beautiful!" Cora exclaimed. "I can't believe your mother didn't like this. I mean I know our tastes were different but this IS just too wonderful. And after all, she had all those lovely Japanese figurines she was so attached to"

"I agree," said Robert. "But, perhaps this was a time where mother couldn't see past the giver to the gift. In any case, this should be the first to go down to the lorry."

In his capacity as under butler, Thomas took charge. "Right. Alfred, wrap that carefully in the original cloth and take it down. And when you put it in the back, make sure you put it in one of the crates we brought with LOTS of the wood shavings around it."

Gingerly, Alfred re-wrapped the vase and carried it as carefully as he could, holding it as tightly as he dared, and headed downstairs.

"And don't drop it!" Thomas called after him.

"A bit superfluous, don't you think," murmured Bates to Thomas.

Thomas responded with a shrug and a smirk.

Meanwhile, Robert had moved on to a horizontal object that lay on a small table. Underneath its shroud lay a beautifully carved rifle case. Robert opened the case and nearly gasped at the exquisite, if ancient, guns that lay nestled in the plush, wine colored lining. Looking over his shoulder, Cora admired the guns as well. "Do you think they were your father's?"

"Must have been," Robert replied. "Mother didn't shoot."

"Well, except for those she didn't like." Cora blurted out and then immediately regretted her words. "Oh, Robert, I AM sorry. That was very thoughtless of me."

"Not thoughtless at all," her husband replied with a smile. "Merely inaccurate. Mama always saved the rapier for those she disliked."

"Stop that!" Cora said through a laugh.

Robert returned his attention to the gun case. "Yes...here... these are my father's initials. I wonder why mother didn't leave this in the gun room at Downton?"

"Perhaps it had some sentimental value for her," Coral suggested.

Robert raised his eyebrows extravagantly at her.

"Well, she MIGHT have!" Cora protested.

"In any case...these will certainly be easy to carry down. The case and handle seem very sturdy." He handed the case off to Bates, who placed it by the door.

"Why don't you choose what's next, Cora?"

"All right," she replied. "I choose this, because even covered it really does look like it might be a treasure chest." She gently tugged at a sturdy canvas covering and indeed, what was revealed beneath was an old fashioned, medium sized, steamer trunk with a curved lid. It was very simply made, but quite elegant.

Robert hefted the trunk by one of its handles. "What do you think Thomas? Will that table support this?"

Thomas bent and tested the trunk by both its handles. "I believe so M'Lord...but we should keep a hand under it. I'm not sure I fully trust it. Or the handles. Jimmy...give us a hand here."

The two placed the trunk on the table, which swayed slightly under the weight, but held. Thomas and James kept a hand on each end as Cora raised the lid to reveal a slew of small objects, each carefully wrapped in muslin. Gently unwrapping the first one that came to her hand, Cora found herself holding a beautifully decorated oblong plate. Like the vase, it too was obviously of Oriental origin. But unlike the vase, with its singular, spectacular green, this plate was decorated with a multi colored menagerie of birds, fish and of course, dragons, whose tails curved around to form the plate's handles.

"Oh, this is so WONDERFUL," Cora exclaimed. "God bless Mrs. Livermore."

As she and Robert continued to unwrap the contents of the trunk, a dozen other Asian delights were revealed from beneath their wrappings. A small plate, delicate bowls, an incense burner, medium and small vases. Each seemed more exquisitely crafted than the last.

"Robert!" Cora interrupted suddenly as they were murmuring over their finds. "Do you think this room is called the EAST storage room because objects from the far east- China and Japan - are stored here? The kinds of things Mrs. Livermore gave your mother?"

"Cora...that is absolutely brilliant! It makes perfect sense. Especially given that this room is no where near the eastern part of the house. Well done! Why can't you ever be that clever when we are playing 'The Game?'" he teased her. "Now, can you also figure out what on earth those silly half walls are all about?"

But, Cora, who was re-immersed in the treasures of the trunk suddenly let out a gasp of delight. "Oh, Robert! Look! How wonderful!" She had unwrapped a small, but stunning silvern picture frame, which featured miniatures of what could only be Robert and Rosamund. How lovely! And how sweet both of you look. The frame is quite wonderful."

Looking over her shoulder, Robert smiled at the images of his younger self and sister. "You know, that frame looks like some of the things in Papa's 'Russian' collection."

"Thomas, after you re-wrap the items, this can go down as well. But even though it is not that heavy, I think you are right about the handles. Better for two to take it - one on each end with a hand underneath.

Alfred had by this time re-appeared from taking the vase down and has been craning his neck over Cora and Robert's shoulders.

"James and I can take it, M'Lord. We'll be very careful."

"All right then,"...and speaking quietly to Alfred, Robert added, "And on your way back up, stop and get a couple of small chairs. There still should be some in the servants' quarters."

The two younger footman left, carefully holding the trunk between them. Which was rather a challenge given the disparity in height between the two.

They had barely left when Thomas called out, "Well, would you look at this!" Robert walked over to where Thomas was holding a mantle clock admiringly. "I'm sorry, M'Lord...the cloth cover came off by accident."

"No doubt." murmured Bates under his breath.

"Well, no harm done," said Robert. "Do you make it to be any good Thomas? We all know of your skill with Downton's clocks."

Thomas beamed under the praise. "Well of course it is very dirty, but I think it may be quite good, M'lord. It's American, I think."

"American?" Cora snorted. "No WONDER it's up here."

"Well, I'll have to do some research to be sure of course," said Thomas. "It is a bit odd though...larger than most mantle clocks."

"Fine then," said Robert with a laugh at his wife's indignation. "Add it to the lot."

"M'Lord," called Bates from the corner of the room. "Does this look familiar to you?" he inquired, gesturing with his stick at a largish object at his feet, wrapped not in muslin but in a kind of felt sack, dark crimson in color and tied loosely with leather draw strings.

Robert peered down. "By jove, it bloody well does!" he said with a smile. "What on earth..."

"What is it?" inquired Cora as she joined the two men.

"Well unless Bates and I are very much mistaken, it is a saddle. This is how saddles were packed to be transported by train when we were in South Africa. In this very kind of cloth."

He reached down and grabbed the leather cords and lifted the sack. "Feels awfully light though..not a cavalry saddle."

Robert put the crimson package on the table and untied the cords. Which, considering their presumed age, yielded surprisingly easily. And, indeed, he pulled a beautiful saddle from the felt. The leather was rich and still shown with the luster and high polish someone had applied before putting it away. It was missing stirrup leathers, irons, and girth, but it was a thing of great craftsmanship. It was also fairly small.

"Do you think it might have been a child's saddle M'Lord?" proposed Bates.

Robert puzzled over this. "It certainly looks like one. But then why is it in Regimental kit? Look...here is the Regiment's Insignia on the cover...OUR Regiment," he said looking with surprise at Bates. "I don't recall serving with any children, do you?

"Far from it, M'Lord. Perhaps someone just stored the saddle in it to keep it well protected."

"Yes," agreed Robert, "but, like the guns, why up here? Why not in the tack room?"

"It seems to be monogrammed." Bates pointed to initials on a brass plate that that had been fastened to the back of the cantle. VEM."

"Mama's initials!" Robert exclaimed. "But that doesn't make any sense. It is not a sidesaddle...it is astride. Mama would have NEVER ridden astride. It just wasn't done. Certainly not in her day. She wouldn't even hear of Mary riding astride."

"Was there someone else in the family; a man with the same initials?" asked Cora.

Robert shook his head. "Mother was the only 'V.' I can't imagine what..."

The question hung unanswered until Robert finally shrugged and said, "Whatever the reason, it certainly belongs in the tack room. Perfect for..." he paused..then finished the sentence..."for a young rider," while Cora frowned at him slightly.

Bates added the saddle to the rifle case and the clock near the door.

By this time Alfred and James had reappeared and Robert nodded to James to set a chair near where Wells was holding up one of the walls.

"I am fine, m'lord, just fine," he protested, straightening.

"Yes, I'm sure you are…this is just for her Ladyship, " Robert responded, taking the other chair and setting it near Cora. Who ignored it.

"Really, it looks like we are just about done," said Robert. "By the shape of it, this must be the screen Wells spoke of. Let's have a look at it before we bring it down stairs."

Alfred gave an enthusiastic tug to the light muslin that covered the 5 foot tall screen. So enthusiastic the delicate work tottered and then fell slowly toward the floor. Alfred gasped, Thomas swore and Wells, who by this time had quietly made use of the chair, reached out a now perfectly positioned hand and grabbed a corner of the screen, keeping it from crashing the whole way down.

"Well played, Wells, Well played!" Robert enthused. You'll have to join us for cricket next year."

"Its very light M'Lord." Well said, as Alfred and Thomas each grabbed a corner of the screen and set it upright.

"And beautiful too," said Cora, as she admired the colorful rendition of kimono clad maidens gathered near a lake with a mountain reaching for the sky behind them. "Honestly, I really AM surprised that your mother didn't like ANY of these exquisite pieces"

Robert sighed. "I suppose..." he began before Bates interrupted him.

"There's something behind the screen, M'Lord." And indeed, between where the screen had been and the wall, one last muslin covered mystery remained. It was about 4 feet wide and 3 feet high.

"Hah! Not done yet! In for a penny/in for a pound," said Robert cheerily removing the muslin with a flourish.

Everyone took a step forward to see more clearly what lay beneath. And then simply stared. And stared.

"But it's YOU, M'lord," Alfred finally blurted out. "To the life, its YOU!"

"Quiet, Alfred," reprimanded Bates. But not harshly, because he, like everyone else could only agree.

It was indeed a portrait of Robert Crawley. Robert as a child of 4 or 5, but captured so perfectly by the artist that there could be no doubt as to identity. But not only Robert. The painting, which was unframed, featured 3 sitters and had clearly been executed in the Lady's Sitting Room at Downton. In the middle, seated on the small, velvet covered sofa, sat Violet Crawley. She wore a gown of the richest blue, which, under the artist's talented brush, glowed with color and nearly matched the vibrant blue of her eyes. She gazed out with a regal calm, bordering on disdain. She held a fan in one hand and her whole mien indicated that she might well use it to to give someone a sharp rap. Though it was unclear who. Perhaps the artist. To her right, leaning against the arm of the sofa was an 8 or 9 year old Rosamund. Also dressed in blue, but a lighter shade than her mother's gown. She fingered the pale green ribbon that cascaded down from a bow in her auburn hair and she too gazed straight out at the viewer with a look that seemed already bemused by life. At Violet's feet and to her left sat Robert. He wore grey trousers, a white shirt and a blue embroidered waistcoat that matched the color of his mother's dress. At his side lay a sleeping Labrador puppy. His small hand stroked the puppy's head. Robert looked slightly past the viewer and it seemed clear that he had worked hard to look 'serious' for the portrait, but had been unable to fully banish a hopeful, slight smile; an open smile that now, to all those in the attic, was a very familiar sight.

"Oh!" exclaimed Cora. "How truly wonderful! Thomas..James.. put it up on the table and lean it against the wall so we can see it better."

The two footmen did as instructed and everyone, even Wells, gathered around to examine this amazing find more closely.

"Its just so marvelous," Cora continued to enthuse. "It really is SO like all of them. Just wait until Rosamund sees it!" She leaned in to look at the painting even more closely. "Its strange though. See here, there are parts that look like they are not finished. The rug, and the drapes; even the puppy's collar is only sketched in. And the background is all rather...vague."

"Perhaps the painter never got paid." suggested Thomas.

Cora laughed. "Well the Dowager certainly didn't pay for what she didn't like. But maybe this is a study for a larger work? But then where is the finished product? Robert...Robert?"

Cora turned and found that the only person NOT studying the painting with great interest was the only person there who was in it. Robert. He stood apart from the others.

"Robert? Do you remember this? Do you know if there is another more finished one somewhere?"

Robert shook himself out of what had seemed to be a bit of a trance.

"Honestly, I don't remember this at all. Nothing about it. Rosamund might. She's older after all. And I certainly have never seen any larger version of it. In any case," he hurried on, "it's time we finished up here. Cover it back up with the muslin and take it down with the screen and the other things. It is time we left here. Past time," he added brusquely.

Thomas and James went to cover the painting back up, but Cora stopped them. "Wait- I want to look to see if it was signed." Robert sighed impatiently. "Can either of you two," she said, addressing Thomas and James, "make out a signature? I can't see one."

The two men squinted hard at the painting. Finally, James said, 'I THINK I might see a bit of a squiggle in the right hand corner, M'Lady...near where the rug sort of peters out. Perhaps a 'W." But a better light would help."

"Yes, of course," agreed Cora, "We can look again when we get it back to Downton.

And with that, the treasure hunters and finders packed up and left the Dowager house in peace. Or, at least as much peace as the most recent Dowager would ever allow.

And the strange little dividing wall to permanent mystery.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2 - Back in The Saddle /Downton, Oct. 1926._

"Mystery solved!" Cora announced triumphantly as she burst in to the library.

"Splendid!" responded Robert, looking up from the papers on his desk. "What mystery?"

"The mystery of the saddle we found at your mother's." Robert continued to look a bit blank. "The one with her initials," Cora said with a small burst of exasperation. "The one that is astride, not a sidesaddle!"

"Oh, THAT one. Right, yes. I told Bates to make sure it got to the tack room. And the guns to the gunroom," he added trying to show he hadn't completely forgotten about many aspects of that day; which, in truth, he pretty much had.

"Well, I certainly hadn't forgotten," Cora said, not fooled. "You said yourself that it didn't make any sense. It had your mother's initials, but no woman would ever ride astride."

"Ah," said Robert with a smile. "Did you find a long lost male relative with those initials?"

"Better!" Cora said, waving sheets of paper in triumph. I wrote Susan to ask her if she knew anything about it. And I have just gotten a letter from her. You'll never believe it!" she enthused, pulling up a chair so she could sit near Robert at his desk.

"If it involves Mama, I don't think there is TOO much I would be not be prepared to believe. But, go on. I can see you see you are dying to tell me." he replied with a smile.

"Well," Cora took a deep breath and scanned the letter in her hand for a minute, "Susan says, that HER mother told her that when your mother was a child, first learning to ride, she kept falling off. She couldn't seem to ever get her balance properly on a side saddle."

"Its hard to believe anyone can, actually," said Robert. "Elegant yet unbalanced."

"So," continued Cora, "Her father had a special saddle made for her and said that she could learn to ride astride, as long as no one saw her and she mastered the side saddle before she was 12. A rather arbitrary age, I think," Cora added.

"Well," Robert protested, "someone would have had to seen her. The stable hands and grooms, if no one else."

"Oh, I am sure your father thought they didn't count. Your mother barely thought they did."

"Steady on. That's a bit severe," Robert reproved mildly.

"You know its true Robert," Cora responded firmly. "It was just the time she was from. And she DID get better. A bit. But anyway, listen, because that's not the most amazing part. Here is what Susan wrote:"

"_Apparently, once she could sit astride, Aunt Violet learned to ride like the wind. She was always on horseback. Racing across the countryside. Challenging any one and everyone to race. Being able to ride gave her a kind of freedom that fed a taste for adventure and even danger. Her mother tried to "rein" her in, (sorry - bad pun), but Mama said that her father was inclined to indulge her. Which my Mama resented bitterly of course...but anyway...he admired her "spirit" and "fire" and all that. And so, on she rode. Crashing through hunts, taking well bred ponies and not so well bred children on excursions that somehow frequently left her wet and muddy when she arrived home."_

"_Well, her twelfth birthday approached and her father reminded her that, if she wanted to continue to ride, she would have to learn to ride sidesaddle. By that time, even he had become alarmed at how 'public' Aunt Violet's manner of riding had become. There was a real tempest in a hunt cup one time when she cut across the road right in front of the hunt. But Aunt Violet refused. And not only refused but said that she would rather run away and live like a "highway man" than have to ride one of those horrid saddles. Of course, no one believed her and her father just harumped and told her to stop acting so childishly, and get on with learning to ride "properly, like a proper young lady."_

Cora paused to take a breath.

"_Well,_" Susan's letter went on, _"that very afternoon, the governess left Aunt Violet alone in her room working on her French conjugation, and when she came back, she was gone!" _ (Here Susan had underlined the word gone and added several exclamation marks for good measure.) _"At first, of course, everyone thought she would turn up when it got dark. But, not a bit of it. Grandmother was in a state, and Grandpapa was absolutely furious. He barked orders like a general and pretty soon the whole estate was on the lookout for her. It didn't take long to discover that her favorite horse... a very nice cob named 'Taffy'.. was missing. Saddled, (with the offending saddle), bridled, and gone." _

"Good Lord," Robert exclaimed. "Mama on the run. A highwayman indeed."

"I know," said Cora, looking hugely pleased. "It...I don't know...it makes her seem so much more..." she paused, groping for the right word.

"Human?" Robert offered with a smile.

"Well, yes," Cora responded a bit defensively. "But not in THAT way. Its just that we always see our parents as always having been parents, and never having had a youthful fling or two of their own. Its good to be reminded, that's all. Now, listen, her adventure isn't quite over yet."

Cora returned to the letter. _"She got just past the village. Fortunately for everyone, Taffy threw a shoe just outside of town. It was coming on dawn when Violet and Taffy staggered into a farmyard. The farmer and his wife couldn't quite believe who was sitting at their table having tea, but he managed to get word back to the main house. Aunt Violet's father's left in a thundercloud..."_

"I can well believe it." murmured Robert.

"_...and dragged her back in a coach...exhausted, muddy but with her chin firmly set."_

"_As punishment, her father sold Taffy and packed Violet off to some dreadful, Dickensian 'Young Ladies School' for a half a year. In Scotland._"

"_Everyone assumed that the offending saddle had gone the way of poor Taffy, but she must have somehow hidden it away."_

"And kept it all these years," said Robert, quietly.

Cora nodded, and repeated, "And kept it all these years."

Cora put down the letter. "Isn't that just the most amazing tale? I mean, I know your mother was stubborn, but she was SUCH a traditionalist, it is astonishing to see her as a rebellious child."

Robert smiled, "Must be where Mary...and Sybil got it. Though you do pretty well in the stubborn sweepstakes yourself."

Cora laughed, "Look who's talking."

Robert turned to face his wife more directly. "Speaking of Sybil...or, more accurately, Sybbie, that saddle got me thinking about..."

Cora interrupted him. "No, Robert, just no. She was terrified after that fall."

"Yes, of course she was, but you and Tom do her no favors by indulging that fear."

He continued in a bit of a rush before Cora could interrupt again. "Sybbie LOVED riding. She loved being around the horses, around the stable; even the brushing and grooming. Honestly, I think she would have mucked out the stalls had we let her. And you just have to watch her watch George when he is riding to see that she misses it terribly and it breaks her heart not to be riding. And it will be the same, if not worse, when Marigold starts.

"But she is still so afraid," Cora protested.

"She is still so afraid because you ... and Tom...won't give her the chance to get over her fear. Mary agrees with me you know."

Cora's expression indicated that her eldest daughter's opinion in this matter carried little weight with her.

"At least let me talk to Tom about this," Robert urged.

Cora sighed. "He'll never..."

"But if he does..." Robert put in.

Cora said nothing, but nodded.

Downtown - 1 week later.

Sybbie enthusiastically skipped along beside her grandfather as they trod the well worn path to the stables. Of course, it was too bad that she wasn't riding anymore, but just being near the horses was still a treat for her; their warm breath and soft noses; the deep richness of the smell. Some people said that stables smelled bad, but her Grandfather had told her that a proper stable, a proper farmyard, kept clean, didn't have a bad smell at all and she quite agreed. (Though, perhaps that didn't always hold true when it came to the pigs.)

As they rounded the stable yard, she saw the head groom, Callum outside, holding a beautiful, dappled gray pony, who flicked his tail and then fixed his gaze on Sybbie as she drew close. "Oh, Donk," Sybbie said, "he's LOVELY."

"She, Miss," corrected Callum, tugging at his cap. "'Mornin' M'Lord.

"She, of course," agreed Sybbie knowledgeably. "What is her name?"

"Willow, Miss," responded Callum.

"Willow.. how perfect," Sybbie enthused. She looked up at her grandfather as they stood near the pony. "George will be so excited!"

"Ah, well," said Robert patting the pony's neck. "Willow is not for George. He is for you."

"Sybbie's eyes...her mother's eyes...her dark blue Crawley eyes...widened. "But...but.." she dropped her head, "... but Donk, I don't ride."

"You used to ride, Sybbie. Your rode very well."

"Until I fell off," said Sybbie sadly, looking at the ground.

"Yes, until you fell off. But, Sybbie, listen to me. Everyone who has ever ridden a horse has fallen off."

"I know... but...it was...I was...very scared," said Sybbie, her voice barely a whisper by the time she got to the word, 'scared.'

"Well, of course, you were scared. It can be quite a scare to fall off. But , Sybbie, answer this. Before you fell off - did you enjoy riding?"

"Oh YES, Donk," Sybbie said, raising her eyes from the ground at last. "I loved it."

"Well then, you must decide if a little bit of being afraid is going to keep you from doing something you love. Come with me. I want to show you something."

Robert took his grand daughter by the hand and led her to the stable tack room; redolent with the smell of leather, and glowing with the shine of brass and silver.

He sat her up on the tack bench and took down Violet's saddle and put it on a cleaning frame in front of her.

"Sybbie, your remember your Great Grandmother?"

Sybbie scrunched up her face ..in the way that melted both her father and grandfather's hearts.

"Oh yes. She always carried a stick. And she sat in the big chair in the sitting room. She smelled like lavender."

"That's right," smiled Robert. "Well, this was her saddle. See, here are her initials. And when she was not much older than you, she rode her horse...whose name was Taffy...all over the countryside. Even though everyone wanted her to stop."

"Why? Why did they want her to stop?"

"Because, some people around her thought she wasn't riding 'properly.' She was riding astride. Using this saddle. Not sidesaddle like your Aunt Mary used to ride. And in those days that was considered VERY improper. But your GreatGrandmother loved to ride. And she didn't stop. Even when people tried to make her afraid of riding, she wouldn't stop. Even when she fell off, she wouldn't stop. Because, like you, she loved to ride."

Robert knew he was completely fudging the real story of his mother and the saddle, but he didn't much care.

"Come on. Shall we see if it fits Willow?"

Robert slipped the saddle, which had been now fitted with leathers, irons, girth, and a pad, over his arm. He took Sybbie by the other hand, and led her back out into the stable yard. Gently, he placed the saddle on the patient Willow's back.

"Fits perfectly, don't you think, Cullum?"

"As if it was made for her, M'Lord, agreed the groom.

Cullum stepped round to tighten the girth and adjust the stirrups.

"Sybbie," Robert said firmly. "No one is going to make you ride. If you don't want to ride Willow, then you can come out here and help Cullum groom her. But, Sybbie, this is your chance to do something I know you really WANT to do."

Sybbie took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I will walk Willow." continued Robert. "I will stay right by his head."

Just barely, Sybbie, nodded.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, Robert lifted her into the saddle.

Willow gave a soft snort, but remained stock still.

"Now", said Robert...hoping to achieve just the right combination of briskness and reassurance..."what do your remember? Sybbie?"

Another shuddering breath...

"Head up." Robert prompted.

"Heels down." whispered Sybbie.

"Very good," said Robert firmly. "And a nice straight back."

Robert slipped Sybbie's left foot into the stirrup and was quietly thrilled when she worked her right foot in on her own. He handed her the reins. "Remember...a light hand." Looking at Sybbie's still frightened face, Robert made a quick tactical change.

"Cullum, why don't you lead us off, then. Steady walk."

"Very good, M'Lord." The groom tugged gently at the lead shank and Willow, and Cullum and Sybbie and Robert all set off at a stately walk toward the training ring. Robert walked next to Sybbie with his hand on her back. He kept up what he hoped was a soothing commentary on her riding...reminding her of skills she had once mastered. When he saw her face relax just a fraction, he stepped up and took the lead from Cullum.

"Donk!" Sybbie said in alarm as her grandfather left her side to walk near the pony's head.

"It's all right, Sybbie. YOU are all right. Aren't you? Just look up. Look between Willow's ears."

He glanced back, and saw his grand daughter's determined chin tilt up. And in that moment, saw his beloved daughter's brave face as well. Now he saw young Sybbie's face relax another fraction. Saw a deep breath without any shudders. Saw the smallest of smiles. And out of the corner of his eye, saw Tom and Cora...their faces mirroring Sybbie's...peering anxiously out from behind the stable corner.

Robert smiled and turned back to Sybbie again. "Your great grandmother would be so proud Sybbie. Adding quietly, "Your mother would be so proud."

"Donk?" said Sybbie. "When we get to the ring, may I ride by myself? I used to after all."

Robert smiled. "Yes, Sybbie. I think that that will be fine."

"And Donk? I want to ride astride too. Like this. Always"

Author's note_: I am struggling a bit with the uploading of new chapters to this story, so I am not sure what will appear where. Hopefully, the sub title of this next chapter to Letters of Intent says it all. But, beyond that I just wanted express my thanks for the kind and encouraging reviews and re-iterate that I didn't create nor do I own these characters and no copyright infringement is intended_.


	3. Letters of Intent, Chapter 3

Letters of Intent/Tales from the Abbey

Chapter 3

Time and Tide - Downton - June 1971

_**Author's note**: Since I find I am inept at editing much at the fanfiction site and/or changing/adding info to individual chapters I thought I would just add what I wanted here. First, this chapter is more 'Family' and 'Mystery' and less 'Angst.' Secondly, for the purposes of this fanfic, I am ignoring most of the last two seasons of Downton in terms of who married who and who went where. And lastly, I do not own nor did I create these characters…three cheers to Julian Fellowes and Carnival…who do…no copyright infringement intended._

George Matthew Crawley, the 7th Earl of Grantham sighed and tossed yet another bill onto the already large pile on his desk. He sat back in his chair and gazed, with unseeing eyes, around the library at Downton. Even in June, cold seemed permanently part of the old place and the sad fire behind the grate ill equipped to fend off the chill.

With a grunt, he heaved himself out of his chair, quickly grabbing for the cane that he had come to lean on more and more over the last few years. _'Just like...what was grandfather's valet's name again?' _he wondered to himself. '_Oh_ _yes, Bates.'_ Bates limped from a war wound as well. Only his was shrapnel from the Boer War while the metal still in George's leg came courtesy of the Luftwaffe, delivered one perfectly pleasant day over the English Channel in 1942. He and his plane had limped home. It had been considered a minor wound at the time and George found himself back up in the air before the shock had even registered. But as he had grown older, the ache had gotten more persistent and deeper.

He limped over to the fire and stirred its unenthusiastic embers. Leaning against the mantle he gazed around the room again, but this time with eyes that saw all too well. The old place was a wreck. And 'that's flat,' to use a term his mother often favored. It had been pretty well stripped of anything of value. An early and beautiful Chinese umbrella stand had gone...when...in the fifties? Paintings, carpets, the best furniture, most of the silver, and more - long since gone in what everyone in the family but he had considered a hopeless serial fire sale to try and keep Downton Abbey running. His mother's dying words were, "George, for God's sake, close the old barn. We gave it a go. It is just time. And no one can withstand time. Not even the Crawleys." Well, those were NEARLY her dying words. Her actual dying words, were, "Where's Edith?" which had puzzled George since his mother and his aunt seemed always to be on the verge of a war…or at least a minor skirmish.

George's cousins, Sybbie and Marigold had agreed with his mother. Sybbie spent her time throwing herself, quite happily, into one lost cause after another, but the only lost cause that seemed to have no appeal was Downton. And though Marigold skillfully managed the publishing business, (now publishing and public relations), that her mother had left her, she had neither the time nor the kind of money... a very great deal of money...that saving Downton required. She looked at him with wry amusement when she told him that he was the only man on the Titanic still trying to rearrange the deck chairs; from the bottom of the ocean.

His own children...2 girls and a boy...the off spring of two different marriages, simply rolled their eyes at the mere mention of Downton. He barely saw his daughters; one seemed hell bent on being arrested for civil disobedience...though as far as George could tell her commitment to any one cause was less than her desire to defy the authorities about any and all, while the other floated on a mantra of peace, love and pot smoke. "Finding herself" and making her "art."

And his son? The youngest...well, there George dared to hope just a little. The boy had loved Downton as a child. Racing though the old place. Hurtling through drafty rooms, the old kitchens, the servant quarters, the too many bedrooms, turning it into his own outsized playhouse. And the grounds...unkempt even then, but still relatively untouched by development...they had provided glorious adventures for father and son. But now, after only a year at university, Nicholas Robert had adopted a mantle of irony and ennui that his father found nearly impossible to penetrate. And whatever love the young man had felt for Downton seemed smothered under all that disinterest. "Just give it up, Father. You might as well try and resurrect the dodo bird."

Well, George thought, perhaps he was right. Perhaps they were all right. No. No perhaps about it - they WERE right. He could not even afford the most basic repairs and maintenance that Downton required. The staff, except one, had long since been let go. Grantham House in London, sold off just after the war. The Grantham Arms and various chunks of land quickly followed. Tract housing ranged just beyond the garden and the deer park looked to be turned into a shopping mall. George was currently fighting a rear guard financial action to protect his grandfather's beloved cricket pitch from the indignity of being turned into a car park.

Ah...his grandfather. There, he thought, was the rub. No matter how logical, how commonsense, how utterly inevitable the loss of Downton was, he could not escape either his own love of the place or, still less, his grandfather's dutiful, yet passionate devotion. Which had somehow seeped into him as surely as the cold seeped through the Abbey walls.

His eyes traveled, as they so often did at times like these, to one of the few items of value that he had not sold off over the last 20 years. The portrait of his great grandmother, his great aunt and his grandfather had always touched him deeply and he simply couldn't bear to part with it. Besides, the painting had been up and down in value so many times he had lost track. And even its heights were not in shouting distance of filling Downton's financial abyss.

His great grandmother he barely remembered and that as an old lady with large hats and, it often seemed to him, a disapproving expression; not the regal and striking woman who dominated the painting. His great aunt Rosamund he remembered better...sweeping airily though Downton and serving up tea at her house in London. But it was to his grandfather as a very young child that he always came back. There was just something about the child's face; some blend of hope and anxiety leavened with a solemn sweetness, that touched his heart deeply. He had adored his grandfather. HE had never called him 'Donk' - his cousins' pet name for him. No, it was always Grandpapa as soon as he could form the words. And together they had roamed the estate - on foot, on horseback, and in cars. Exploring each hedge row and pond. He, fidgeting but fascinated, as his Grandpapa engaged tenant farmers, land workers, shop keepers, school children, school masters and all in sundry in conversations about their lives and the land. His heart swelled with pride when he saw how everyone treated the senior Crawley with such respect. And even then, he knew it was, in many cases, respect tinged with genuine affection.

People said he looked like his grandfather, though his mother always tossed her head and said he was much more like his father; a father killed on the very day of his birth. It was true, he was fair, like his father, but when he looked at himself in the mirror it was his grandfather's dark blue eyes that looked back.

George shook off the fit of nostalgia. It wouldn't and couldn't help. The wolves were at the door and he had simply run out of objects of value to fling at them.

George's depressing reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the one remaining servant...if you didn't count the village woman who came in to cook and cook badly ...and he didn't. Jeffords had been his batman during the war and mutual loyalty and a certain level of need had kept them together.

"Letter and a package, Captain." (Jeffords had never been able to make the switch from George's military rank to his civilian title and they had both long since stopped worrying about it.)

Jeffords set both down on the cluttered desk.

"Do you think it might be possible to extricate some tea from the kitchen?" inquired George.

Jeffords snorted. "If that woman hasn't burned out the kettle and let the milk go bad ...maybe."

George went to the desk and looked at the letter and package. There was no name, but each was from the same address; in a not very good neighborhood in London. He decided to start with the well-wrapped, fairly large package. The outer wrappings fell away to reveal a sort of miniature crate. His letter opener wasn't sturdy enough to pry open the nails, but his pocketknife, (one of his grandfather's possessions that he especially treasured.), did the trick. Whatever was in the crate was wrapped in still more paper and protected from jostling with small, rolled hand towels. Finally, as he pulled away the paper, a clock emerged; a mantle clock to be precise, on the large side, but a rather nice one at that.

He was holding the clock up and examining it in more detail when Jeffords re-entered, carrying a tea tray on which was a lovely, if chipped tea set and a few Digestive biscuits.

"I'm afraid she's eaten all the chocolate ones." Jeffords informed George. "Typical. Where's that from?" he inquired, using the edge of the tray to clear some space on the desk.

"No idea," said George. "The letter is from the same place, so maybe that will clear things up."

Jeffords looked at the clock critically. "Its not the Hope Diamond, is it?"

George gave a wan smile. "No, I'm afraid not."

With another snort, Jeffords departed.

George sat down at the desk and helped himself to the tea and a biscuit. He reached for the letter and letter opener and slit it open.

Settling back in his chair, he read,

"_Your Lordship, _

(The writing was large large and a bit shaky. As if by someone who didn't fully trust his control of his pen.)

"_You won't remember me, but I used to work at Downton. "_ (George groaned...an appeal for money, no doubt.) _"My name is Thomas Barrow and I was the under butler when Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes ran the place." _ (These names George recognized so he kept reading.) _"If you have opened the package...and if you haven't...you should...you will see that it is a clock. And a first rate clock at that. American walnut, French works, Russian face. Pretty rare and worth a farthing or two. But not enough for Downton." _ Here, George frowned. How did this person know about Downton's financial woes? Not that is was a secret. The letter went on.

"_I found this clock when we were cleaning out your great grandmother's house after she died. And when I left Downton, your grandfather gave it to me. Because he knew I was fond of clocks, (I was in charge of all the clocks at Downton.) Some people might say that I stole that clock, but I did NOT!" (NOT was underlined several times.) Your grandfather was a decent sort. I valeted him on and off over the years when Bates was'.. _and here the word 'away' was crossed out and replaced with _'unavailable.' '... and he gave it to me for years of good service when I left to start my own business. In 1928. HAH! That's rich, isn't it? A new business, just as the great depression knocked all the tea cups off the shelf. My partner and I had a printing business. For about 6 months. After that it was whatever came my way to keep body and soul together. I almost sold that clock a dozen times and more. Half the time it didn't even run. Kept in a closet. Pawned it twice. But I always got it back."_

"_Anyways, eventually, I scrapped and scrabbled enough together to open a clock repair shop. It never was much, but it was mine. People needed to keep things going during the hard times not just toss them like they do now. So, I did alright."_

"_I read about the family occasionally in the papers. When your grandfather and grandmother died. And your mother too. She was a bit of a Tartar if you don't mind me saying so. But she loved the old place almost as much as his Lordship did. I Read about having to sell so much of it off as well. "_

"_So, why I am writing is, turns out I have cancer." _ And here George thought...uh-oh, here it comes. _ "In my lungs. Too many smokes in my time plus a touch of the mustard gas. Truth to tell I am amazed I have made it this far. I guess I have had a decent run. So I suppose I can't complain. But the truth is, I don't have anyone to leave what little I have to. I got used to being alone and the rest of what I own can go on the trash heap for all I care, but I thought this clock should go back to Downton. Not just chucked out with the rest of my life." _

"_I hadn't cleaned it in years, so before I sent it off I decided to give it a thorough going over. Some oil had built up in the inside and I was cleaning it off...careful...like I always am with clocks, and I felt this little ridge. Something that shouldn't be there. If you take the back off the clock...it is easy, you'll figure it out...and run you fingers real careful along the inside the housing around the works you will feel something too."_

Feeling a bit of a fool...and oddly, as if someone was looking over his shoulder...George picked up the clock and examined the back closely. At first he could see no entrance...no way to get the back off. But he kept looking and found a series of fine ...VERY fine...clips that when gently turned allowed the back to be removed.

George had never really looked at watch or clock works before but even his untutored eye could discern this was very fine craftsmanship. Even not running, its gears and jewels spoke precision and great care. Ever more curious he carefully felt around the works inside the sidewalls of the clock. At first he felt nothing. The walnut interior's surface was a smooth as polished glass. Frowning, he worked his fingers around again. Just as he was about to give up with an exasperated sigh, his fingers finally felt something...something different along the smooth surface. Yes, there was definitely something there. George withdrew his hand and quickly went back to the letter.

"_When I found it, I didn't know what to make of it. But I kept turning it over in my mind. Couldn't let it go, really. I am a dog with bone when I get a hold of something. You ask anyone who knew me. And the one thing that I kept coming back to was the size of the clock. It is big for a mantle clock. I mean there is no one size and the proportions of this clock are still fine in their way but there was always a weight and thickness to it that puzzled me right from when I first spotted it. Still puzzled me, all these years later. So, I kept running my fingers across that ridge...almost wore the skin off I did...when one day something clicked. I didn't know what I did exactly, but a compartment opened. The works are unbelievably cunning. You have to press just the right place with just the right amount of pressure. Just below the line of the ridge."_

Now thoroughly intrigued, George put down the letter and felt his way back to the slight ridge he had found earlier. For what seemed an impossibly long time nothing happened except his hand became more and more cramped Just as he was about to give up, he heard a soft click, and a portion of the interior...of the thinnest possible wood...slid down beneath his searching fingers. George gasped. Cautiously he worked his fingers into the opening where they were immediately greeted by what felt like velvet. And wool. Ever so gently he tugged at the velvet and then slowly withdrew a small, lushly purple velvet pouch. A silk drawstring was around the neck of the pouch. With fingers that were now trembling, George cautiously loosened the chord. Gently he tipped the pouch onto green baize desktop. Slowly a gem appeared. Then another. Then two more...then five. Ten all told. Even in the dim light of the library, George's desk now glowed and sparkled with...with WHAT? More than a little curious he went back to the letter again.

"_It finally came to me that the whole thing would be easier with a light,"_ Thomas had continued.

George almost fell over as he scrambled to fetch the torch that now permanently resided on one of the library shelves as defense to the ever more frequent power outages the ancient electrical system subjected the old house to.

"_and when I did, I found that there were six compartments in all. Four in the walls, one in the floor and one under the center finial. All of them held velvet pouches and all the pouches had diamonds. Oh, yes, they are diamonds all right. Real ones. I took one... the smallest one at that... to a jeweler...told him a client had paid me with it when he came up short paying for a clock I had repaired. Jeweler said I had come up trumps on that deal. Worth 1,000 quid if it was worth a penny. Said they were probably Russian mined...definitely Russian cut."_

Here George thought he might faint.

"_You'll find the biggest ones in the compartments in the bottom and top. Put the Crown Jewels to shame, some of them would, if you ask me. There's all different colors in all different sizes...rubies, emerald, sapphires, white diamonds...the lot."_

George was definitely suffering from palpitations and he grasped the edge of the desk as hard as he could to try and keep a grip. Literally.

"_Genius how the compartments were made and sealed and even more genius how they were packed. Each pouch surrounded by its own wool baffling system. You could shake that clock from dawn to dark and you never would have heard anything rattling around. And it explained why it was larger and heavier than most mantle clocks._

"_Well, I had to laugh, I did. Here I was two weeks after being told I was going to cash in my chips sooner rather than later, and I had stumbled on a fortune greater than any I ever dreamt of. And a fortune that had been right under my nose the whole time. Life's a funny old game, isn't it?"_

George put the letter down. Very carefully. Then he stood up. Very carefully. In a daze he walked over to one of the library windows. The one that overlooked the garden where roses once grew and thorns and brambles now ruled. He took a deep breath. And then another.

He sat back down at the desk and carefully reached inside the clock again. It took awhile but eventually he succeeded in releasing the catch on the false floor of the clock. He fingers quickly found the velvet bag. Heavier even than the last one. He loosened the draw string and simply gasped at what tumbled out. Fewer this time, but gems of astonishing size and beauty. Barrow had exaggerated slightly...these were not as large as the jewels in the Crown, but they were a very near miss indeed. And the colors! A ruby the color of the finest port; sapphire blues ranging from midnight to the near aquamarine of Granny Cora's eyes; emeralds that were like looking at summer.

Stunned, he sat back in his chair and tried to think. Think about anything. Oddly, what came into his head first was like a flicker from an old movie screen. The old kitchen at Downton. Mrs. Patmore's face as round and shining as an apple. And the footman...no...Under Butler Barrow taking he and Marigold for piggyback rides through the servant's quarters. Thomas. THAT Thomas Barrow.

He picked up the letter again. _"So, when I found all this, I thought, what can I do with it other than give myself a very nice funeral? I have no idea where those diamonds came from. All I know for sure is that those jewels must have been in that clock from the time I found it at the Dowager's house. I've got no family left. Never was much for friends. If Miss Baxter was still alive, I'd give some to her, but she passed on years ago. Charities? Not bleedin' likely. No charity ever did anything for me when I was hard up. I wasn't always happy at Downton and sometimes I made life hard for others there. But the truth is, Downton is the closest thing...the only thing... I have ever had that seemed like a home. The one place where I had laid down roots. People who knew me would laugh at that. Makes me laugh a bit, but it is the truth. And when I saw Dowtnon's name in the paper again. About the cricket pitch...I thought...why not Downton? Why not try and save the place that was the nearest thing I ever had, man or boy, to a home." _

"_Did you know that I was tops as a cricket player? Your grandfather counted on me for every house vs town test. And I never let him down. There were lots I did let down, but your grandfather's cricket team- never."_

"_There should be enough there to save that cricket pitch - that and a deal more. You reminded me a bit of your grandfather. The others said you were like your father...but I could always see lots of your grandfather in you. I know you will do right by the old place and his memory. _

_Very truly yours,_

_Thomas Barrow"_

_PS -You gave me an orange once. When I wasn't well. You and your mother came to visit me in my room and you gave me an orange. That meant a lot to me then. It still does. _

George stared off into the middle distance. His breath coming a little too quickly; his mind racing even faster.

'They couldn't be real, could they? But, if they weren't real, this was the most elaborate...and pointless... hoax in the history of hoaxes.'

He would do what Thomas said he had done, George thought. Take a gem...perhaps 2 or 3 to discrete and discretely distant jewelers. See if they were real. And if they were? God, there would be lawyers. He hated lawyers. Despite the fact his father had been a member of the profession. But George had come to associate the legal profession only with endless lines of creditors, impenetrable documents and bad news.

Lawyers. Yes, lawyers. And the police? His stomach lurched. If the jewels WERE genuine where did they come from? How could he ever prove ownership? DID he even own them? Would some one leap out of the woodwork and snatch the diamonds...snatch Downton out of his hand just when opportunity had arrived?

Oh god, he could kill Thomas Barrow for holding this shimmering oasis in front of him. But wait...Barrow...he WAS dying...or so he said? Should he try and contact him? Yes, of course he should. He said he didn't know where the diamonds came from, but was that true? Was it possible?

God...his head was spinning.

An orange. He remembered now. Holding it in his hand like a chalice and offering it to Thomas when he was sick in bed in Downton. His mother had told him that Thomas needed cheering up and an orange was the most cheerful thing young George could think of.

Carefully, he stood up and with a hand that shook only a little poured himself a stiff drink. He set his jaw.

Somehow...from somewhere...these jewels had come to Downton. And then come BACK to Downton. And if they were real, until it was proved otherwise he would regard them as Downton's property. He would fight for them and use them as the means with which to protect and preserve what he and his Grandfather had loved so much. And THAT, was most definitely FLAT.


	4. Letter of IntentWar and Peace Chapter 4

Author's note - I hope that this comes up as the last chapter of Letters of Intent/Tales from the Abbey. But I am never sure of the interface. What I am sure of is that I am very grateful for all the positive reviews. These last chapters take us full circle...and then some to focus on where this all started; Robert's relations hsip with is formidable mother. Again, I do not own these characters and no copyright infringement is intended.

War and Peace, Russia, Winter 1875

Screaming. The wind was screaming. The Princess was screaming. Footmen and coachmen screamed at the horses and each other as the two carriages jockeyed for position. The horses screamed and plunged in their harnesses. The snow screamed by.

Violet Crawley shivered in the cold, clinging to her maid, as the Princess yanked open carriage doors and threw Violet's cases into the snow. Screaming, (more screaming) at the footman, as the Princess ordered them put into a different coach. Frantically, Violet searched out the face of her Prince. They were to meet in Paris, but surely he would come and put an end to this. All this screaming. And then she and he would be together. Would start their life anew. As they had pledged and promised each other. But his face was not there. So many faces, but not his.

Suddenly...yes...that must be him...stumbling through the snow...stumbling toward her. At last! But when the figure drew closer, it wasn't Igor at all. It was, she registered with a start, the Kuragin Estate agent. A man, Violet happened to know, on the cusp of being fired... and quite possibly shot... for stealing staggering amounts of funds from the Kuragin family over decades.

Just as the agent raised his terrorized face to Violet, she felt herself yanked unceremoniously. By her hair. The princess, with a grip of iron, dragged her to a coach and pushed her in. A torrent of French and Russian followed. And then her maid. The carriage door slammed shut. Frantically, Violet bolted to the other side of the coach and thrust her head out into the snow. Desperately she searched for Igor. But he was not there. The driver's whip cracked and the horses leapt forward. And the only face that Violet saw...the last face from her Russian odyssey was that of the blasted Estate Agent as he stumbled after the coach, holding out a package. Stunned and sobbing, she withdrew into the coach and into her maid's arms. What she didn't see, in the darkness, as the coach raced off, was the Estate Agent, with one last desperate lunge, thrust his package among the cases on the back of Violet's carriage.

'It will work' he thought...'I will get to England and get my diamonds back. It will work."

He thought this as the snow enveloped him and the wheels of the Princess' carriage pounded him into the snow.

* * *

Downton Dec., 1926

Robert drifted restlessly through the house. A house on the point of bubbling over with decorations, over stimulated children and an air of festivity he just didn't share. Despite Cora's best efforts. Oh, yes, he was aware that she was aware he had been a bit down for the last several weeks and she had tried, in ways both subtle and not so subtle, to buoy his spirits.

His wanderings finally took him into he and Cora's bedroom. Ostensibly to fetch a book, but really, to slip into her sitting room and look at 'the' painting. Study it when no one would study him.

Part of Cora's campaign of cheer had involved the painting...the one of he and Mama and Rosamund discovered at the Dowager's house. A painting that for reasons he could not pin down left him somehow sad and disappointed each time he saw it. Yet, here he was again...looking at it.

Cora, who loved the painting and raved about it regularly until Robert's discomfort became obvious, had enthusiastically thrown her self into its history and care. She had sent it to York to be cleaned and it had accompanied them to London, over his strong protest, to be examined by a worthy art expert. (NOT the awful Bricker, which had gone without saying by both) Rosamund was delighted by the painting. She had no more recollection of sitting for it than he did, but she regarded it with great interest and enthusiasm, rather than the vague feeling of unease he felt. "I think I do remember that dress I am wearing." she said. "Such an especially lovely shade of blue."

Cora had come back from meeting with a Mr. Pollard, over the moon with excitement. The painting, it had turned out, was by Whistler. THE Whistler. James McNeil. The fact that this particular painting had been done by an American gave Cora a special filip of enjoyment. "Mr Pollard thinks it quite wonderful." she had reported. "A bit of a shame that it isn't finished... it is definitely NOT a study...and that does effect its value, but we would never sell it anyway. He was quite puzzled about WHY it was unfinished and did a great deal of research into Whistler's time in England, but really hasn't come up with any explanation. I told him Mama probably threw him out on his ear when she couldn't stand having an American around for another single second. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I am going to have it properly framed and then we will find the perfect place for it at Downton. Since it was obviously painted in the Ladies' Sitting Room, it should go there, but honestly, because of the size...and well, frankly the light can be so poor in there… I am not sure it will go. What do you think?"

Robert, who had required a short course on Mr. James McNeil Whistler, had hoped that was the end of it, and this particular painting would find its way into deep storage in one of Downton's many rooms, only muttered a response and when Cora pressed him he had rather snapped at her, saying, "I don't really care where it goes so could we just stop talking about it!" Cora had looked startled as he had stomped out of the room on some pretend errand, but from then on, she hadn't mentioned the painting at all.

But that didn't mean Cora had given up. Once it was framed, she had Carson and crew hanging and moving and re-hanging and re-moving various Downton paintings trying to find just the right place for the Whistler. Robert had gruffly vetoed all of the downstairs locations...much to Cora's consternation and bewilderment. Even Mary and Edith had pressed to have the painting...which they of course loved...hung somewhere in one of the sitting rooms...or the library! "Yes, the library!" They both, in rare agreement, enthused. But Robert snapped and grumbled even more at that. Until finally Cora, in some desperation, settled on her sitting room. And when Roger protested even that, she put her foot down. "Robert, I don't pretend to know what you have against this painting. But it is MY sitting room and I will have what I want on the walls. And that is an end to it." And Robert knew he was done. Defeated. With the very thing that made him so unsettled so close by his and Cora's sanctuary. It was too ironic and too cruel.

Dully, he had become inured to its presence. But it continued to both haunt and draw him. So here he was again. Studying her. His mother. Never mind he or Rosamund or the puppy whose name he could not for the life of him recall. No, for him, the only subject of the painting was his mother.

Ever since the seemingly indomitable Dowager has done the unthinkable, and actually died, Robert had been unable to understand his own lack of emotion at the loss. Nearly everyone had shed tears upon hearing of her death...or if not then, then at her funeral. Cora and the girls had truly wept. He had seen Tom touch away a tear. And poor Isabel had been nearly undone. The servants had been almost equally moved. Why, even Mrs. Hughes...who he once heard refer to his mother as "that old bat!" had shed tears...and he had no doubt they were genuine.

While he had remained dry eyed throughout. He...he who had cried when his children were born, when he and Cora's baby had slipped away from them too early; when he had lost all of Cora's money, when Sybil had died, when Matthew was lost. He had cried freely...in a most 'unEnglish' way… so many other times when the lives of those he loved were torn. And yet, at the loss of the most important woman in his life before Cora, he felt...nothing.

Ruefully he considered his childhood. He had always cried easily; much too easily for a boy sent off to boarding schools. His mother sniffed at his 'sensitivity' while his father smiled indulgently and said, 'he'll out grow it.' And in a way they had both been right. His earliest years away from home were a misery of bullies who delighted in tormenting him to tears. Which came all to easily and too often. But, as his father had predicted, he had indeed 'grown out of it.' Literally. He still cried upon occasion, but he had a tremendous growth spurt a year or two ahead of his classmates and, overnight it seemed, his tormentors found themselves facing a tall, powerful, and, thanks to a few lessons from one of Downton's stable hands, skilled fighter. Robert turned from tormented to protector of the weak almost overnight. But, he had never stopped crying at those moments in life that truly touched his heart.

So why could he not summon up tears at the loss of a woman he so admired, was so amused and bemused by, so frustrated and exasperated by...that he so loved? Because he knew he DID love her. But why didn't it feel that way? And it seemed to him that the longer he felt so little the more a sense of emptiness overcame him.

His unpleasant musings were interrupted by Bate's discrete cough. Robert turned to see his valet standing in the doorway of Cora's sitting room. A place he had never ventured into. "I'm sorry M'Lord. I meant to give this to you weeks ago, but forgot. And one of the hall boys thought he saw you come into the bedroom."

"Yes, of course," Robert replied somewhat impatiently. He crossed over to where Bates was to save the man the embarrassment of venturing in. "What is it?"

Bates handed Robert an envelope. "When we brought the guns and the saddle back from the Dowager's house, Harker found this in the case when he took guns out to be cleaned. He gave it to me right away. I put it aside and only just found it. I'm terribly sorry M'Lord. I can't imagine how I forgot it."

"Oh, well," said Robert. "No harm done I am sure." He looked the envelope a bit more closely. It was in is mother's hand addressed to his father in London. "Looks like it was in that case for dogs' years. I am sure a few more weeks doesn't make any difference."

"Thank you M'lord. Do you need anything before I go?"

"No, that will be all."

Bates departed and Robert sat down at Cora's dressing table with a sigh to examine the envelope more carefully. He opened it and found several pages inside. Apparently his mother had written his father from Downton in April of 1876.

_Dear Martin,_

_I don't blame you for still being angry and disappointed with me. Although we have both tried to put Russia behind us, it seems that it will continue to come between us whenever you need or want something to throw in my face. But I cannot in truth blame you for that._

(Here Robert's curiosity was seriously peaked.)

_I hope that someday you can truly forgive me and we can get back to who we were. How we were. _

_I know that I was a fool. And, in some ways, I suppose, that is the hardest thing to forgive. I know it is the hardest thing to forgive in myself. I let myself be swept away by Kuragin..._

Robert gasped out loud at this. "Kuragin?" Who was that? A dim bell rang. Yes...of course...one of 'Rose's Russians'. A bearded gaggle of whom came to the house for tea and a 'viewing' of his father's Russian collection. And then something about Kuragin's wife. Shrimpy involved somehow. The details escaped him. He read on.

_...and what I did was betrayal. I betrayed you in the worst way a wife can."_

At this point, Robert stood and his jaw dropped. Was he reading this correctly? Had his mother had an...here he actually struggled to form the word... _**an affair?**_ HIS mother? An affair with Prince Kuragin!? No. It wasn't possible. And yet...what else could she be referring to? He began to pace the sitting room. And there was something else. After 'Rose's Russians' had left...had been dispersed to homes and shelters throughout England and beyond…he remembered something Isabel had said. One evening before dinner, he had wondered why his mother had taken such trouble over the Prince's wife. "Oh, well," Isabel had replied with a smile and a modest twinkle in her eye, "everyone's past occasionally requires a bit of account settling." Robert remembered his own surprise at this remark, but then Isabel had turned away to greet a guest and the whole incident had slipped from his mind.

Robert spun and looked again at the painting. And suddenly he was able to see his mother, not as his mother... not even as the imperious form who dominated the painting, but as the strikingly beautiful woman she was. This realization caused him to sit down abruptly. It took several deep breaths before he could re-focus his attention on the letter.

"_I know that can never fully be forgotten. But, I hope some day that it may be forgiven...or at least, forborne. By you my dearest. For after all, it was you...your sense, and more importantly, your love.. that brought me back to myself. That picture of our cherished children shook me to my core and and turned my path to home. Toward Downton...and you, my dearest, ARE my home and my heart. I wish nothing more for both of us that we may become that one heart again. _

_But, when you left today, there was one thing you said, that I simply cannot let stand. Over your shoulder you shouted at me that I was an "unnatural mother." Martin, although you may think I have sacrificed all rights to indignation, I tell you I have not, and that charge cuts me to my very soul. I know you think I am a 'distant' personage in our children's lives; that I relegate them to an hours' visit at tea each day. And so I do and so I say does every other mother worth the name, "natural" or not, in Yorkshire and dare I say in England. While YOU indulge and spoil them...their every tear warrants a flood of sympathy from you and..."_

(the last words here were crossed out..)

"_No. That is not it. If I am to make you understand, I must be honest. About this as about everything. I DO think you indulge the children too much and sometimes I fear for their future wellbeing and independence. And I genuinely do believe that that often a parent nurtures best by letting children, under proper supervision of course, find more of their own way. But that is not all of why I keep the children, especially Robert at arms length._

_When we returned from Russia, you left almost immediately for London. I do not blame you for that. We both needed time for our lives to stop spinning. But then you sent that foolish little man...that so called painter of no discernible talent and even fewer good manners... to come and paint us. What ever for!? An American no less!_

_Well, as you know, it did not go well, nor did it end well. Before the beastly fellow was finished Rosamund and I came down with an awful illness, (I am SURE it was because of him that we became ill), and so I sent him packing and glad I was to see the back of him. I never felt so ill in all my life, but at least Rosamund and I got better. But just as we began to recover, Robert fell so ill...so dreadfully ill._

_I know I told you about this upon your return from London but I did not tell you all of it. How very sick he was. How, over the course of 3 days it looked very much that he was going to die. How he burned with fever and was gripped with dreadful pain. And, oh, Martin how sweet and strong he was. "Don't worry Mama," he would say with deep seriousness. "You musn't worry about me." _

"_And oh, that DREADFUL so -called physician. Travis. Who knew next to nothing and DID nothing to ease Robert's pain or illness. He muttered into his beard and drank most of the good sherry. If it has not been for Cotille, I am convinced Robert would have died. It was she who thought to wrap him in cold sheets to break his fever. And it worked...while the dreadful Travis was deep into his cups, it was my MAID who saved our son's life. " _

"_Martin, I love both our children very much, despite what you may believe. But I cannot say I love them in the same way. From the moment Rosamund entered this world, when I looked at her, it was like looking at myself. From the very beginning, she had a shrewd and prepossessed gaze of almost unnerving directness. Like me, she will, at times be headstrong and even willful, but, I am convinced she will sail forth into the world on a ship of self possession and confidence; requiring a firm but subtle hand on the tiller to hold her to the course her station in life requires." _

"_But Robert is a much a different child. He is truly open to the world in a way which makes him utterly vulnerable. When I held him in my arms after his birth and he looked up at me so solemnly, so trustingly, I knew even then that I would be in danger of loving him too much, holding him too tightly. And so I guarded against that. But Martin, after nearly losing him, after hearing what I thought may well have been his last breaths on this earth, I wanted to cling to him tighter than any vine. Every time he merely stumbled my heart lurched and I wanted to surround him with cotton wool. And what breaks my heart still further is that I KNOW that this would be the worst possible thing for him. I feel like I could smother him with my fear. Completely prevent him from going out into the world the way a boy, and then a man must, to become strong and grow into his responsibilities. And so, I do the only thing I can do. I pull away. I put a clamp upon my heart as far as Robert is concerned. It is a terrible thing to have to do, I assure you, to close part of one's affection, one's heart, to the very person who calls to it most sweetly. But, to truly love Robert, I have no choice."_

"_And though you may see this as 'unnatural' and perhaps it is...and though Robert may someday see it the same way, I can only pray that this way...this mother... will allow my beautiful boy to fully become the man I know we both want him to be."_

"_Dearest Martin we have been through so much in the last year ...so much that I put us through...yet I cannot believe we will continue to drift apart like some of those in our set that we have always looked on with such ...dare I say 'superiority.' Two people living two separate lives in one union. I desperately do not want that and I know that you do not either. I love you Martin. I love our children...though I may show it differently than you. And I love the life we once had. Please my dearest...please come back to me...fully back to me so that we may be two in one marriage. Two, who simply are one."_

"_With all my love,_

_Violet."_

Robert let the letter slip from his grasp. He sat at Cora's dressing table while a waterfall of un-namable emotions crashed over him. He felt he had been punched very hard in the stomach...as if he might be sick… and nearly faint with how short his breath came. In some corner of his mind he wondered if he might be having a heart attack. And then immediately knew that he was - just not the kind a doctor would diagnose. The heart being wrenched was the heart of his very being; the heart that bound him to his mother, to all that he had known of her and she of him.

And now, at last the tears did come. And not just because of the extraordinary things his mother had written. He had known it all along. Oh, not the details of course... not the affair, not how sick he had been or how his mother had nearly broken with fear at the idea of losing him. No, the facts were new, but the tears that coursed down his face came from the deeper knowledge that he had always had; that his mother's love for him was as steadfast as any battlement and as ferocious as any tiger. The letter...amazing as it was...only served as tug on his sleeve...a door pushed abruptly open to remind him of who she was and what and who he had lost. He put his face in his hands and wept.

A moment later Cora stepped though the door in search of some hospital board papers. Robert's bent form and the stifled sobs she heard filled her with dread. She knelt beside him.

"Robert! Darling, what is it?"

Robert fumbled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his streaming eyes.

"Atep." he said, looking up at her with reddened eyes but also with a small smile.

Cora was baffled and becoming increasingly concerned. Was he husband suffering a shock of some sort?

"Atep was the name of the puppy in the painting." he explained. "My first lab. Mama picked him out as well." He smiled again at Cora. He straightened up and took a deep breath.

"It's all right, honestly," he said noting her concern. Standing, he took her hands in his. "I'm fine. Or at least I know I am going to be fine."

He bent to pick up the pages of the letter. For a moment he hesitated. After all, this was a private letter between two very private people. And yet, he and Cora were, as his mother had written, "Two, who are simply one." and there was nothing he did not want to share with her.

"This is quite a read. I think you will find it almost as astonishing as I did."

Cora relaxed a little as her husband handed her the letter. He seemed more himself. She began to scan the letter.

Robert had turned to look at the Whistler. Suddenly, he spun round to face her, this time with a huge smile on his face. "You know, I think you have been right all along. This painting should be somewhere much more prominent in the house. In the sitting room...or better yet the library! I'm going to find Carson now and have them move it.

Astonished, Cora just stared at him.

As he started to leave the room, he turned back and took her in his arms. And kissed her deeply and thoroughly. "I love you. I love us. And I love our life together...two people who are simply one."

* * *

Epilogue. Downton - 2005

Nicholas Robert Crawley, The Eighth Earl of Grantham pushed the last of the farm accounts to the edge of his desk. "Is that the lot?" he inquired of his estate manger.

"Yes, M'Lord."

"Well, I must say things seem to be doing very well. Congratulations Moore. I mean, who would have ever thought organic farming could become so profitable? Bees and chickens and vegetable with lumps and spots. Bless them all." He gave a short, happy laugh. "I must thank the Prince of Wales the next time I see him...and to think, they laughed at him for talking to plants."

Moore raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he gathered up his papers and departed the library at Downton.

Nicholas stood up and stretched. Patting his pockets he searched for his phone before remembering he had left it in his coat pocket when he came back from his walk. He started to go to fetch it but paused, as he often found himself doing, to simply take in his surroundings...he wandered slowly from the library to the sitting room through to the library... simply enjoying his home. His lovely home.

Nicholas was not in any way a religious man. But, in the last few years he had, when in residence at Downton, found himself attending church on a more a less regular basis, sometimes even succeeding in getting his bemused wife and children to come with him. Little of the Anglican ritual touched him in any way, but he did find church the one place he felt most comfortable to offer his most heartfelt prayer; that he always be humble enough, smart enough, and aware enough to appreciate every day how stupendously lucky he was.

He was married to a beautiful and intelligent woman who seemed to manage the perfumery that she had inherited with aplomb and long distance ease. Their children, unlike the children of many of their friends, were neither drug addicts wastrels, nor even spoiled. And his son, though he rolled his eyes at the idea of a title, actually loved the estate and was already learning much about it.

And his own work...well that was, to him, in some ways the most amazing thing of all. He had somehow fashioned a career as the writer of comic mysteries. Some said he had even invented the genre. And his books...which he genuinely enjoyed writing...flew off the shelves. It made him laugh some times.

And as for Downton. He still did not fully understand exactly how his father had done it...something about a lucky investment followed by an outright windfall...or was it the other way around? A distant Russian cousin? But slowly, ever so slowly, Downton had emerged from the underbrush of neglect and near ruin that had overwhelmed it in the 60s and early 70s. The entire house...from roof gutters to basements re-done. Re-pointing, re wiring, re-plumbing, re-staffed, re-everything. His father had even been able to buy back some of the antiques that had gone earlier. An exquisite Chinese umbrella stand suddenly re-appeared along with various other valuables that everyone had thought long since vanished into other, wealthier homes. And the land! A car park reclaimed. Acres of land turned back to gardens and parkland. Parts of the house were opened to the public on a regular basis, but mostly it remained a home...their home. The Crawley family home. And upon his father's death, he found that...barring the worst of times and/or truly epic mismanagement... Downton's financial foundation was firmer that he could ever have imagined.

The big mantle clock chimed and reminded Nicholas that he had to be back in London for a meeting with his publisher.

He cast one last glance at his father's favorite painting...the Whistler of his ancestors...whose features he found daily in his own face and the face of his children. With a cheerful whistle he started to head to the foyer to fetch his phone from his coat.

He was stopped in mid-stream by the entrance of the butler, Cramer.

"M'Lord. there are two gentlemen here to see you."

"Really? I wasn't expecting anyone. Who are they?

"One is from Scotland Yard. And the other is a representative of the Russian Embassy."

"The Russian Embassy?!"exclaimed Nicholas. "What on earth can that be about?"

THE END (For Now)


End file.
